Welcome to the Caribbean, Love
by DasMervin
Summary: Glossy tresses. Heaving bosoms. Chocolate orbs. Festering sores. A parody of clichés.


**Title: Welcome to the Caribbean, Love**

**Author: Co-written with Mrs. Hyde. Thank you for your purple prose and the perfect way to end this little jaunt—you're beautiful, Hyde.**

**Genre: Comedy/Parody**

**Rating: M for innuendo and sexually transmitted diseases**

**Summary: Glossy tresses. Heaving bosoms. Chocolate orbs. Festering sores.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own _Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl_, _Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest_, or _Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End_, directed by Gore Verbinski in association with Walt Disney Pictures, nor any of the characters affiliated with it.**

**Author's Notes: A little dose of "Reel to Real." Let's face it, folks—Captain Jack, no matter how charming, handsome, and charismatic he is, drinks too much, is somewhat of a letch, is a pervert, and has got syphilis (all statements said by not just me and my co-author, but also the man himself, Mr. Johnny Depp). And when it came to STDs back in the day, when you find one, you find more—as our lovely lady "protagonist" will soon find out.**

* * *

The gulls called overhead, their keening wails echoing out across the lonely expanse of the sea. Anastasia Aurora Depp turned her eyes skyward to watch as they circled above, and she yearned to join them, to shed her pain and heartache and take wing on the warm winds of the south.

A small sigh escaped her as she turned her limpid gaze back to the swells of the sea cresting on the horizon. The sails bellied above her, snapping in the breeze, and the waves crashed against the prow, misting her with a fine spray that sparkled like gems on her golden lashes. The sea winds roared around her, swirling her skirt and tossing her glossy tresses, howling as though joining her heart in a dirge for her late father.

_Father_…

A single tear welled up in her eye at the thought, a crystalline drop that glittered in the evening sun as it traced its way down her rosy cheek to fall into the salt tears of the sea below.

He had been everything to her, her only family since her mother was lost in childbirth with her baby brother all those many years ago. They had lived together on their island holding of Bellanoche in complete happiness for many years until tragedy had ripped their lives asunder. Her father had been stricken with the yellow fever in the sluggish heat of the storm season of last year, and soon succumbed to death. She had stayed by his side until the bitter end, hiding her tears as best she could so that the last sight he would see was that of his beloved daughter's smiling face.

She angrily dashed the tears from her eyes, those aquamarine pools the same color as the rolling Caribbean that bore her ship. Fate, it seemed, was determined to exact a penance for the many years of happiness that she and her father had shared. For breath was still in his body when Count Winston Marcellus duMond had arrived at their home.

He was a short, greedy little man, with eyes like a weasel and an unctuous, oily voice that Anastasia had detested immediately. But because he was their closest living relative, no matter how distant that may have been, he had presumed on the connection to move in, claiming to be there to aid his family in their time of need.

What his true intentions were had become painfully clear within moments of his arrival.

His own fortunes depleted, he had arrived on their doorstep in an effort to secure part of theirs. What he had found had surpassed his wildest hopes—a beautiful young heiress with a father soon to shuffle off this mortal coil.

His every move and word in her presence sought to ingratiate himself with her. He flattered profusely and hollowly, oozed kisses on her hands that made her skin crawl, and leered at her out of the shadows of both her home and her nightmares. With her father ill there had been no one to protect her from his unwanted advances, and she had been forced to endure his lecherous glances night and day.

But for all that she was fair, she was no fool—she could see clearly through the flattering façade he erected in her presence. She had smelled whiskey on his breath on multiple occasions. The servants scuttled out of his path, and once she had even watched, horrified, as he kicked her beloved spaniel Mopsy.

She took to spending every waking moment cloistered with her dying father, in hopes of avoiding him, but soon learned too late that he was making good use of the time that they were apart.

Her father's labored breathing had eventually stilled, and it fell to her to see to the heartbreaking task of having him properly interred. She had remained strong through the ordeal, only allowing herself to shed her tears when he was lowered into the ground next to her mother, as he had wished.

And no sooner had they returned to the house, her father not yet cold in his grave, when Count duMond had made his move. He produced forged documents that stated that he, as the only living male relative, was the legal heir to her father's holding and fortune. She denied this claim, being in possession of her father's will that left everything to her, but duMond had been surreptitiously filling the island with his cronies and lackeys, and in a matter of days she had been robbed of her entire birthright.

And if this had not been cruel enough, duMond had slunk into her room one awful night and had attempted to force himself upon her, saying that it was only right and proper, as he was going to marry her so that he could share his good fortune, and she should be appropriately grateful for his kindness and attentions.

She had barely managed to fight him off with a timely intervention from the abused Mopsy, who would not see her mistress harmed, and a good knock to his skull with her candlestick, but she knew that she could not stay.

Bolting her door, she quickly dressed and packed her father's will and whatever useful supplies she could find in her room, and crept out of her own home like a thief. She fled to the docks and managed to buy charter on a ship to set sail, in hopes of coming to a larger colony where she could notify the authorities and reclaim her inheritance.

And so here she stood, on the prow of the _Albatross_ as she sailed into port. She had been at sea for two weeks, two long weeks while heaven knows what had been going on at her home under hands of the cruel duMond. But she would prevail, against even the longest odds, and she vowed with every cry of the gulls and crash of the sea that what was once hers would be hers again!

She flickered her azure gaze back to the stern as the ship began to bustle with activity. They were nearing port and would dock for resupply. She planned to seek passage on a ship bound for Port Royal, where she hoped her salvation would lay.

She turned her pain-filled eyes back out past the prow. The harbor was crowded with ships, most in various states of disrepair. She wrinkled her nose daintily—why they felt it necessary to stop in Tortuga, an island known for its unsavory element, was beyond her.

And yet, even as her eyes skimmed over the ships, one seemed to stand out from among the rest. Its masts rose taller than the rest, and despite the falling darkness, she could see that the furled sails were a deep ebony. It seemed somehow brighter than the rest, as though she was well loved.

Her sharp eyes had no trouble discerning the figures moving about on the deck. One in particular caught her eye—by his noble bearing she knew that he must be the captain. Only the master of such a ship could move with such grace and command.

He stood at the bow, staring out at the sea even as she was. His piercing gaze swept the horizon, and for a moment their gazes seemed to lock, and she felt a frission of electricity race down her spine.

Her heart thumped in her chest, and it was as if she could feel him across the distance that separated them, and she touched her hand to her heart even as she saw him grip the railing and look down into the waters as if they were the source of his heart's blood.

* * *

Captain Jack Sparrow flung himself back over the railing—again—watching with a sort of curious detachment the way the last remnants of his supper sloshed down in the water below.

"Are ye finished, or are we tryin' for a fourth?" Gibbs asked dryly, looking impatiently amused at his Captain's current position—the one he'd been occupying for nearly ten minutes now.

Jack slowly pulled himself back from the rails of his ship, looking green, disgruntled, and quite drunk all at the same time. "Waste of good rum," he slurred, staggering backwards and tipping his hat straight onto his head. "Best get me another bottle to replace what's lost, eh?" he continued, waving at Gibbs.

Gibbs only snorted in response and shook his head. "Still loadin', Capt'n," he said. "If ye want rum, ye'll have to go and fetch it ashore."

Jack's put-out scowl deepened. "The rum is _always_ gone," he said forlornly, swerving towards the gangplank. "But," he said, brightening as Gibbs appeared at his elbow to steady him, "at least this time there is more to be had." He threw his arm around Gibbs's neck. "Come with me, me hearty, and we'll find the rum, and more besides."

Gibbs chuckled in response. "Are ye sure ye're up to it, Capt'n? Ye're hardly standin' upright yerself, much less anything else."

Jack gave him an affronted look. "I'll have you know," he said, waving a finger and nearly falling flat on his face as he spoke, "that…" he trailed off for a moment, his eyes widening. "That I need to get back to the railing again," he finished.

He made it. Just.

He heaved himself back upright with a beatific grin. "There. I feel ten times better."

"You said that after the second time," Gibbs remarked.

"Then it's twenty times better this time around," Jack countered immediately. "Now, stop your naysaying and let's find us some light-hearted lasses. And more rum."

He stumbled his way onto the dock, nearly falling over and into the waters below. Gibbs followed dutifully in his wake, mostly in it for the rum himself, but in no small part to make sure that no harm came to his inebriated captain.

* * *

Anastasia swept off the ship, holding her head high as she ignored the catcalls from the despicable wretches that she had been forced to endure for company for nearly the past fortnight.

Hidden carefully in her bodice, cradled in her ample bosom, was the pouch of gold she had snatched during her hurried flight from duMond. She hoped that with it she might barter for clothes more suitable for sailing than the somewhat battered silk dress she was wearing, and perhaps find passage to Port Royal, where she might enlist the aid of the British garrison.

A maidenly blush crept up to stain her silken cheeks a rosy pink. Some small, rebellious part of her hoped that she might again see that dashingly handsome captain she had seen from the harbor, but she quickly dismissed the flight of fancy. She had more pressing matters at hand—the demands of her heart must simply be pushed aside so that justice might be done.

* * *

Jack flopped down with a _thunk_ on the bench next to Gibbs, shoving the flagon of beer across to his comrade even as he cradled his bottle next to his chest. A single swig was enough to perk him right up. "Well, that's better. Half my quest completed, and all."

Gibbs was eyeing his own flagon with a rather blank expression, but wasn't one to pass up free spirits. "Capt'n, perhaps we should be going back to the _Pearl_," he said, wiping the foam from his lip after an invigorating draft.

"Mr. Gibbs—how long have we been at sea?" Jack asked.

"Must be near a month, sir."

"And you of all people should know what treasure is sorely lacking on the ship," he informed him.

"They're bad luck at sea, Jack, ye knows it as well as I!" he protested.

"Well, we're not at sea, now are we?" he asked, sounding inordinately pleased with his logic, and rewarded his own brilliance with more rum, followed by an impressive belch.

Gibbs shook his head, defeated. "Well, Capt'n, best not drink that too fast, or I can assure ye that there will be no fun to be had, one way or another."

Jack looked petulant and tipped the bottle back again.

He was distracted from the long pull he was taking from the bottle by a long, low whistle from Gibbs. "Capt'n," he murmured, "would ye look at that?"

* * *

Her heart was fluttering madly beneath her breast as she stared at him from across the room. Everyone else seemed to melt away and disappear. It was him, just as she had hoped. Unable to tear her eyes away, she drank in his appearance as a man lost at sea would swallow the live-giving fresh water upon reaching the haven of the shore.

At first all that captured her attention were his eyes, those molten chocolate orbs that glittered seductively from behind their lining of kohl. She'd never seen a man with the nerve to wear face paint, but he was evidently both brave and masculine enough to dare, and the effect was one of startlingly attractive sensuality. His fine, delicate skin was warm and dark, his arching cheekbones kissed by the Caribbean sun. A curving cupid's bow of a mouth peeped out from his well-combed whiskers, begging for her kiss. It seemed to her that he personified all that was freedom, and even across the room she felt drawn to him, the aura of the sun and the sea that surrounded him pulling at her heartstrings like a siren song.

He met her eyes and regarded her with a smoldering look in the limpid pools of his eyes, and for a fleeting moment that lasted an eternity, all the world went away, and there was only Anastasia and the mysterious, handsome seaman who she knew was destined to be the captain of her heart.

* * *

"She be a fine, fine lass, Jack. They don't usually come lookin' like that!" Gibbs said appreciatively.

Jack agreed whole-heartedly—that was, without a doubt, perhaps the finest looking whore he'd ever seen in his life. An impressive set of knockers was threatening to spill right out of her tight bodice. Her mouth was red and pouting and looked tight enough to send him to heights of ecstasy previously unknown in this world. Her wide blue eyes and curling yellow hair gave one the delightful impression that she was barely fifteen—and she was staring straight at him.

"Mr. Gibbs, your company is no longer required, because I don't share. So shove off," he said imperiously, winking slyly in the direction of the girl still staring at him, her strangely star-struck expression leaving her looking almost glazed. Gibbs, on the other hand, looked resentful.

"I saw her first!" he protested. Jack turned to glare—which was difficult, because turning made him dizzy, but he thought he was to be congratulated for not falling off his chair, and that of course meant that he was more than menacing enough and should be rewarded with another drink.

"Yeah, but she ain't lookin' at you. She's lookin' at _me_," he said, rising from his stool, teetering dangerously before righting himself. "Go do something useful with yourself," he instructed Gibbs, pleased with his cleverness, and proceeded to wend his drunken way over to the wench in the corner with only two thoughts on his mind: get drunker and get laid.

* * *

Jack managed to land upright in the chair across from the girl, although it was a very near thing. "'Ello, love," he grinned, his eyes never rising above her collarbones.

She didn't seem to notice his leer, nor his annoyance when she clasped her hands over her breast, thus obstructing his view. "Oh, greetings to you, stranger," she said breathily. "My name is Anastasia Depp. What is your name, sir?"

"Capt'n Jack Sparrow, lassie, at your service," he slurred, sketching a rough bow that he immediately regretted, as it made the room start to sway in an alarming manner.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "A captain!"

"Yes, indeed, love!" he nodded, smirking smarmily. "A real man, you know."

"You don't need to tell me, kind sir—I could see it in your mien even as I first saw you," she murmured.

Jack nodded vacantly and drank his rum. She batted her long lashes at him and spoke again, coyly asking, "What brings you to Tortuga, my fine captain?"

"Well, I'd not meant to leave the ship, but, well, a man can't ignore certain feelin's, you know!"

Her almost ridiculously blue eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "Oh, I knew it! I knew that we must be destined to meet, for I felt the same!"

"Brilliant!" Jack exclaimed, drinking to that while holding on to the table for dear life. He reseated himself and started digging around in his coat while the girl gazed raptly at him. "So, m'dear, what's the charge? I know what I'm willin' t'pay, but we can negotiate—" he started, fumbling about with his pouch of gold reserved strictly for the company of the fairer sex.

Anastasia suddenly looked quite offended. "You think I would charge money for my love?!" she nearly shouted, her pointed little nose tilting upwards like a bowsprit.

Jack blinked stupidly at her. "Wait—what?" he demanded, confused and rum-addled. "But you just said—"

Anastasia turned her face one-quarter profile and gazed off into some distance that only she could see (Jack not having had quite enough rum to reach that point). "I would never sell my passion, my ardor," she said dramatically, before turning back to him with a meaningful look. "I will only give myself freely to the man who is the true captain of my heart," she whispered.

Jack stared at her for a moment, not believing his ears, before breaking into a wide grin, his eyes gleaming. "You're _free_?! Hell, woman, why didn't you say so earlier?" he said, standing so rapidly that he got tangled in his chair and nearly ended up making the close acquaintance of the floor.

A single tear rolled down Anastasia's round little cheek (and Jack definitely liked that—he hoped she kept it up) and she stood to look soulfully into his eyes. "Yes, I am free," she said softly, turning her dewy eyes to his again, hand on her breast. "My heart is yours to take," she declared, holding out her hand to him.

"Don't mind if I do!" he garbled, pushing her up against the wall to brace himself and struggling mightily to get under that tight bodice of hers. Anastasia giggled and slapped his hand away.

"Not in public!" she whispered throatily in his ear. "Let us leave this place and go somewhere private, where we can be together and consummate our love!" Jack nearly tipped over backwards in his haste to turn toward the stairs. He once again succeeded in the heroic task of staying on his feet, and once again rewarded himself with a swig of rum. "Shall I lead the way, then?" he asked, eyes crossed, and without waiting for an answer gripped her wrist tightly and dragged her though the crowd.

He teetered up the stairs, passing by the rooms from which came muffled thumps and moans before finding an empty one at the end of the hall. The lamp was thankfully already lit, and Jack marched right in a slammed the door behind them. He gave her a seedy grin, took another swallow of rum, and pushed her up against the wall again.

"Jack, I—wait, Jack," she fussed, struggling a little (which he liked) as he got a handful of her bubbies (which he also liked).

"What?" he grunted, trying to bite.

"We needn't—we needn't rush so!" she said, squirming a little.

"Oh!" Jack said, her words penetrating his rum-and-flesh induced haze. He leered at her. "Whatever you say, love," he grinned slyly, and doffed his hat before shrugging out of his coat (pausing for more rum).

He tossed her another grin and moved toward the bed. Anastasia followed him with her eyes, looking at him with wide-eyed anticipation as he threw himself on the bed and tried to look sultry, although the room kept sliding in and out of focus.

He wasn't quite drunk enough that he didn't notice when her coy little pout suddenly became a look of revulsion as her eyes cast about the room. He raised his head and looked around, at a bit of a loss what was amiss. "What?" he asked.

"The—the bed is _crusty_!" she cried, reeling back in a display of feminine distaste. Jack grunted, flopping back down on his pillow.

"Ah, that's good—I hate it when I have to roll in a wet spot that's not my own," he said in satisfaction, and patted the mattress next to him.

"But it…it _smells_ in here, Jack," she whimpered, shrinking in on herself.

Jack squinted at her and sniffed. "I don't smell anythin'. In fact, I must say, this is one of the better rooms I've been in! But enough about all that nonsense—drop 'em, love," he said, flexing his fingers in her direction.

The pout was back. "But, Jack, isn't there somewhere _else_ we could go?" she pled. "Perhaps…perhaps back to your ship?" Her lashes fluttered again and her bodice strained as her breath hitched.

He was confused for a moment, but brightened. "Oh! My ship! Right!" he exclaimed, thrashing about a bit before getting to his feet. "_My_ ship," he said again. "Did I mention I was the captain?"

"Oh, yes," she said softly. "The master of your craft."

"That's bloody right!" he agreed, throwing his coat back on, setting his hat askew on his head, and snatching up his rum. "I steer and everything!"

* * *

Looking back on what little of the journey Jack remembered, it was a miracle that they made it back to the ship in one piece. He kept getting distracted by her more than ample cleavage, causing him to rethink his decision to go all the way back to the Pearl, and she kept stopping in random places and nattering on about a will or something, which only made him think of Bloody Stupid Will Turner, which was a turn-off under any circumstances. To top it off, he'd nearly fallen off the docks again when she'd stopped abruptly to moon over the view or some such rot.

By the time that they made it to the gangplank of the _Pearl_, Jack was feeling rather out of sorts and more sober than he would have liked, so when leading her below decks he hit the rum double time to make up for it. By the time he showed her into his cabin he was back to being happily bladdered, his flagging spirits buoyed by the rum, the dirty look he'd received from Gibbs, and most importantly the fact that they had finally reached their destination.

The minute the door was closed, he wasted no time in backing her against it yet again. She wasn't quite so wiggly this time, which made for easier access. He enjoyed her coy act for the most part, but wished she'd let up on it a little—there was only so much taunting he could take.

"Oh, Jack," she moaned lightly against his mouth. He growled in response, mostly because he couldn't remember her name. He jerked his head to the side when her fingers suddenly came in contact with the curve of his jaw.

"Jack, your face…this injury…how anyone could mar such beautiful features…" she asked, sounding concerned while trailing her fingers delicately down his cheek. He shrugged, pushing her hand out of the way.

"Eh, it comes and goes, oozes occasionally—but who cares?" he replied, fumbling with her skirt and making valiant (but completely ineffective) attempts to hitch it up and get under it. However, Anastasia only squirmed against him again, looking a little disconcerted, grabbing at his wrists and stopping him from making any progress at all.

"Jack, shouldn't we be on the bed?" she asked breathily. Jack's mild irritation at yet again having his gropings interrupted subsided, and he grinned toothily at her.

"Cert, love," he babbled, hitting the rum again and all but dragging her through his cabin, detouring around the stanchion that he located with his face and making his unsteady way to the bed he usually slept in. "Usually" meaning "whenever he had the wherewithal to fall into it," because he had a tendency to pass out wherever he happened to be at the moment (Gibbs was thankfully closemouthed about that time he'd awakened to find himself with no pants and cuddling a disgruntled sheep).

When they finally reached the untidy mess that was his bunk, he tried to push her down on it, but she whirled out of the way and he wound up accidentally pushing himself onto it. He flumped down onto the lumpy mattress with a _whoof_, grunting when he knocked his head against the wall, his hat squashing down over his eyes.

"Feisty, eh?" he murmured, then reached up and tugged at her dress, attempting to land her on top of him. She didn't come willingly, but his mounting frustration was slightly soothed as his impatient tugs began inching her bodice down over her mountainous chest. Her tits strained marvelously, and another drunken pull rewarded him with a satisfying rip.

"Jack, please, slow down!" she cried, tugging her dress back up over her shoulder. Jack flopped about for a bit before propping himself up on his elbows, leaning his head as far back as he could so that he could see.

"Jack, we have to savor this moment!" she said, sounding piqued.

He stared at her from under the brim of his hat. "We haven't had a moment to savor, love!" he said incredulously. "So, why don't you—" he pointed at her, "—get down here—" he pointed at the bed, "—so we can make one!"

Anastasia brushed her hands across her front and preened slightly before assuming that dewy, sultry pout again—which was starting to get on his nerves. As such, when Anastasia daintily placed a knee on the edge of the bed, he didn't waste any time in seizing her, wrapping a clumsy arm around her waist and finally getting a handful of jiggling flesh. She squealed a little as he yanked her down on top of him, and yelped when he grabbed her arse. And then she started that bloody struggling again when tried to roll them over so he could pin her proper and get up under her clothes.

He bared his teeth in aggravation when she somehow managed to slip out of his grasp _again_ and sat primly on the edge of his bed, one hand raised daintily to her heaving bosoms, the other one smoothing out her hair.

"Goodness, Jack—must you be so wild?" she huffed, and he smirked at her.

"'S'what I do, love," he replied smartly, and made straight for her thighs. She jerked away in response.

"Why don't you slip out of your coat and hat, Jack?" she said, her smile a bit brittle this time.

He removed his effects as quickly as was possible in his current state, took a swig of rum to steel him against what was proving to be a rather trying ordeal, then sat back down, wrestling with his stubborn boots.

"Why don't _you_ slip out of that _dress_, hmm?" he prompted, an edge to his voice.

The corner of her prissy little mouth turned down. "But I wish to speak to you, Jack," she whined.

"Ah, ah, ah!" he interjected, holding up one wavering hand as he dropped his boots to the floor. "All negotiations are final—you said you didn't charge!"

Indignantly, she said, "I don't! I would never!"

"And you said you had services to offer?" he demanded, speaking as slowly and clearly as he could through his fog of rum. Anastasia turned her eyes to him.

"I said my love was yours to take," she said softly, clasping her little hands over her heart.

Jack held up his hands, staring at the floor. "All right—so when are we going to be getting around to the _taking_? I don't have all night—in fact, I don't know how much longer I have in general," he said, scratching his crotch. Anastasia ignored that as best she could and gasped.

"You are doomed?! Are your enemies stalking you, or perhaps you are under a pirate's curse?" she breathed, leaning forward to sit close to him.

He blinked at her. "You're daft," he finally pronounced, and tilted his bottle back, only to find that it was empty. He set it back down with great deliberation. "The rum is gone," he said flatly. He looked at the floor, hove a great sigh, and lurched to his feet. "So," he said, swinging his head 'round to look at her, "now it's up to you." And without further ado, he shucked his breeches and fell back down onto the bunk.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment before furrowing his brow as he realized something was amiss. He propped himself back up on his elbows, regarding the situation with a sort of sloshed detachment before coming to a rather unfortunate conclusion. "Bugger," he grumbled, slumping back onto his bunk. "Hang Gibbs, anyway." He looked up at her and said cheerfully, "Well, m'dear, it seems we've found where the rum went. Looks like you'll have to exert yourself."

His drunken grin slid quickly off his face when he realized that she was staring in mute horror The Jolly Roger. "What?" he asked.

Her breath was coming in whistling gasps. "What—is—_that_?!!!" she shrilled, her voice spiraling upwards like the whistle of a boiling teakettle as she pointed at him with a trembling finger.

He gawped at her for a moment before finding his voice again. "You…you don't know?" he finally got out. "In your line of work?"

"You—you have—_warts_!" she shrieked.

"Oh! That!" he chuckled. "Don't mind those, lassie—you just caught me on a bad day. They're not so bad, really. 'Sides, a good many wenches find they right enjoy them! So, get to it, then," he directed, looking up at her expectantly.

Anastasia screamed. She screamed, and then ran out of the room. Jack watched her go fuzzily, frankly not at all sad to see the back of her.

"Well, there went that," he sighed. "At least I didn't have to pay her—come to think of it, _I_ should have been paid for that." He huffed through his nose and wished for a comforting draught of rum. "Keep that in mind…never go for the free ones again—you get what you pay for, obviously," he groused, attempting to sit up. This proved to be quite difficult; the tide must have come in with a vengeance, because the boat wasn't merely rocking, but rather spinning.

He settled for pushing himself back up on his elbows and surveying his splayed, limp, and half-naked body with a blearily appraising eye. Mulling over the situation for a moment, he brought his hand up close to his face, staring at it with a stupid grin.

"Looks like it's just you and me again tonight, lad," he slurred with a drunken laugh, and then promptly fell backwards and passed out cold.


End file.
